


Matching

by elizabethofyork



Series: My Golden Prince [2]
Category: The White Queen (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Mother/Son platonic bonding, etc. - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethofyork/pseuds/elizabethofyork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Elizabeth of York teaches her son, Prince Henry, how to write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matching

Henry, duke of York, sits on his mother’s lap and watches her pen move across the page. The queen’s chin rests on the crown of her son’s head, her nose buried in the curls so like her own. When she takes her hand away, her name is written in bold, black script:  _Elizabeth of York_. Henry reads it carefully, mouthing the words; he can understand the letters even if he can’t form them himself.

“There,” the queen says, softly and with no little satisfaction, “now you try.”

 Slender fingers wrap around chubby ones, helping them to grip the pen. Henry watches as clear, lovely letters appear on the page, seemingly by the work of his own hand. His mother is doing everything, he knows, but still he endeavors to memorize each movement so that he can replicate them without her help. All of their lessons are like this; sitting at her desk, him in her lap, the king absent. If he were here, surely he would disapprove of the queen being so informal and familiar with the young duke, but he never is; state business always keeps him away. So mother and son are free to do as they like.

Queen Elizabeth takes her hand away, causing Henry’s grip on the pen to go lax. _Henry, duke of York._ His name and title stare back at him dauntingly from the page. squinting at the two names on the page, Henry notices something. 

“Mama,” he whispers in delight, “we match.” In response to her quizzical look, he pointed to the word at the end of each phrase: _York_. 

The queen can hardly hide her grin. “That we do, sweetheart.” She kisses his cheek, and whispers, “Let’s begin again.” 

She does not, cannot, know that there will come a time when her golden prince, aged sixteen, will hear news that will strike a sadness in his heart comparable only to that he felt at her passing, and when he picks up a pen to write a letter of condolence, he will wish that her hand would guide his once more, and the letter will be delivered marred with tears. 


End file.
